


In Sorrow

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 20:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"…and Fingon in sorrow took the lordship of the house of Fingolfin and the kingdom of the Noldor…"<br/>- Of the Ruin of Beleriand, The Silmarillion.</p><p>Fingon and Maedhros meet again for the first time after the Dagor Bragollach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Пребывая в скорби](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10382325) by [Followers_of_Feanor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Followers_of_Feanor/pseuds/Followers_of_Feanor)



> As usual in my fic-verse, I assume the version of the legendarium in which Gil-galad is Orodreth's son, rather than Fingon's. 
> 
> The events that Maglor refers to (in passing) take place in my story "Only Ashes Left Behind", but they are not essential to this.

Findekáno sat on the great stone throne, concentrating on keeping his back straight and his head up, even as he gazed blankly at the wall hangings. The light that filtered in through the high windows of the throne room seemed sluggish and sickly, a shade of grey-yellow that was completely wrong for the time of year. It was early spring; in any other year, the light would have seemed bright and new-made, full of promise as winter loosened its grip on Hithlum. But not this year. The winter was beginning to pass, but there was no warmth in the weak sunlight that made its way through the thick, choking pall that hung over the land. The flames were extinguished in the north, but they left behind a malaise that sat heavily over the land, and its people.

Suddenly his brief moment of reflection was broken by a distant horn call from the guard tower, echoing off the stones but falling strangely flat in the heavy air. Findekáno winced, and then sat up a little straighter, unconsciously adjusting his father’s – no, his -  crown. Another delegation? More minor nobility come to pay their respects to the new High King? Most likely. He sighed a little. There had been a steady stream of such people since his coronation, conversations couched in stiff, dreary formality as if the circumstances were entirely normal. But never the one person he was truly anxious about. There had been no messages at all from the east, not for months now. He chewed his lip nervously at the thought.

Then the doors of the high, arching hall burst open and his herald stood there, bowing low. Various court officials filtered in around him, lining the walls of the throne room, their sombre dark blue mourning robes flowing about them. There seemed to be a great many of them present; an important guest then? He spotted Lalwendë as she placed herself by the dias where his throne stood, and caught her eye, a question in his gaze. She shot him a brief flash of a smile, warm and encouraging, if a little apprehensive. Findekáno’s heart lept.  _Could it be…?_

The herald spoke at last, his clear voice interrupting Findekáno’s thoughts. “The Lords Maedhros and Maglor, of Himring, humbly request an audience with the High King.”

Findekáno had to restrain himself from breaking into a grin, as relief flooded through him.  _Alive. Safe. Eru be praised._

He realised that everyone in the room was looking at him, waiting for him to answer. “Bring them in” he said quickly. “I would speak with them.” The herald bowed silently and slipped out, and a moment later the doors were opening again. Through them strode Maitimo and Macalaurë, surrounded by their banner-bearers. They were dressed in the distinctive red-plumed helms of the house of Fëanor, heavy sable fur-trimmed cloaks billowing from their shoulders, emblazoned with the eight-pointed star. The gleaming silver armour beneath looked as though it had been newly polished for the occasion, and not seen fighting on the journey, a fact for which Findekáno felt a stab of gratitude. Their faces were pale, (as, he supposed, was his own, in this dead and light-starved spring) and their eyes a little more hollow than he had last seen them, but both Maitimo and Macalaurë stood straight and proud.  _So, he wants to make it a formal visit,_  though Findekáno. It was, he supposed, for the best from a political point of view. He raised his chin, his eyes meeting Maitimo’s for a fraction of an instant. He suppressed the urge to run down from the dias and across the throne room, the sudden mixture of the desire to throw his arms around Maitimo, push him up against the wall in a fierce kiss, or shout or strike him in anger him for letting him remain without news for so long. As they approached the throne, Maitimo swept off his helm, and Macalaurë followed his lead, their hair spilling out in elaborate braids. Although they fastidiously wore not a thread of the ubiquitous blue of the court of the High King (a conscious political decision on Maitimo’s part, Findekáno knew) they seemed to him to fit in far more naturally in the throne room than he did. The Fëanorian flair for putting on a performance, he reflected unhappily, came easily to both Maitimo and Macalaurë. Findekáno gritted his teeth. Maitimo clearly considered it important that they should make an entrance, although Findekáno was not certain to what end. He tried to catch his eye, to transmit a question with his gaze;  _what are you doing?_

But Maitimo was not looking at him. He was dropping to one knee at the foot of the dias, Macalaurë echoing his movements, the sound of steel armour against the flagstones falling curiously dead into the hush of the room. Their heads were bowed, hair falling forwards and catching the sluggish, pale sunlight filtering in through the window. Finally Maitimo looked upwards, tilting his head back to look Findekáno in the eye. The very gaze of those silver eyes awakened in Findekáno a renewed stab of relief, and a flood of affection for his cousin. Simply looking at him made him feel a little more alive and purposeful, as he had not felt for weeks in this dark-draped, battle-weary fortress.

“Long live the High King” said Maitimo, his voice clear and proud, carrying across the room despite his kneeling position. Findekáno saw him exchange a momentary glance with Macalaurë, before he caught Findekáno’s eyes again, his mouth twitching  at the corner in what was almost an encouraging smile. Then his face was flat and dignified again, as he continued speaking.

“We come to offer the allegiance of the House of Fëanor to the High King, and to renew our pledge of fealty to the Crown. And to offer our continued friendship to the House of Fingolfin, and our condolences in these times of grief.”

A ripple ran through the assembled lords and ladies of the court at this carefully-worded proclamation. Findekáno looked up, realising that he had almost forgotten them, although Maitimo and Macalaurë were acutely aware of their audience. Findekáno, for his part, had still not become quite used to it. His father had been a natural politician, a showman of a sort too… no. He knew he could not afford to think like that, could not compare himself. Not now, not while there was a broken, battle-scarred people to lead through to better times. He spotted Lalwendë in the crowd, and she smiled at him again, giving a hint of a nod at his cousins kneeling at his feet. Macalaurë began to speak, his voice unusually quiet, and perhaps a little ragged at the edges.

“My King, we swore to hold the lands in the east, as our own under your father’s rule. A deal was struck that we should have the friendship and favour of the High King, and freedom to conduct out affairs as we pleased, in exchange for keeping the east free of the servants of our Enemy. In this” - Macalaurë looked uncomfortable – “we have failed. Yet Himring still stands, and we come now to reaffirm the promise we made to your father.”

“ …As far as our previously held Oath allows” qualified Maitimo. Whispers ran again through the crowd. Maitimo looked pained, his fair face careworn, and it was all Findekáno could do not to reach out to comfort him. But Maitimo kept his composure. “We cannot speak for our brothers. Indeed, we have not had sure tidings of their whereabouts.” He paused momentarily, drawing a steadying breath. “But by the bond of love and kinship between our houses” – he looked up at Findekáno again, copper hair falling backwards from his face – “we would offer you our service and loyalty once more… such as it is.”

“And it is accepted” answered Findekáno, projecting his voice to address the room. “And we offer to the House of Fëanor, as ever, the blessing of the High King.”

The two brothers drew their swords as protocol dictated, offering the hilts to Findekáno, and bowed their heads. Findekáno hesitated for a moment, his mind suddenly cast backwards many years, seeing his father standing here, Maitimo and all his brothers kneeling before him, one by one. And before that, the moment that Maitimo handed him the crown that Findekáno now wore… how had his father felt then? What had gone through his mind? Findekáno could not say. Where his father should be, there seemed to be a cut-out space into which he himself did not quite fit. Nevertheless, he knew the correct procedure here, at least.

He went first to Macalaurë, taking the hilts of his twin, curved swords and touching them to the crown on his head, then lowering them to kiss the pommels. He handed the swords back to Macalaurë, and then offered him his own hand. Macalaurë slipped off his leather gloves, taking Findekáno’s hand, and lightly kissing the blue stone set into the ring on his finger. With a slight shock, Findekáno realised that Macalaurë’s palms were covered with what Findekáno knew all too well to be scarring from recently-healed burns. He had seen too many such scars lately, they all had. And the ones that healed were the lucky ones.

Then Maitimo was offering him his sword hilt, still looking down. Findekáno repeated the sword-blessing ritual, suddenly intensely aware of the people’s gazes on him. Maitimo looked up at Findekáno as he handed the sword back, his silver eyes wide and somewhat solemn beneath his pale lashes. Findekáno offered his hand, and Maitimo took it, his eyes fluttering closed reverently before squeezing tightly shut in obvious relief as he pressed his lips to the ring, brushing Findekáno’s knuckle ever so slightly as he leaned back again. Then he let go, and the brothers were sheathing their swords and standing. Findekáno took their hands in his as they turned to face the onlookers.

“Let it be known” he declared “that even war and loss cannot break the bonds between our houses, which are more important now than ever.” The assembled crowd shuffled nervously; there was a cough, then a few half-hearted cheers and a scattering of applause. The people were wary, he knew. War made them guarded, and the long absence and sudden appearance of the two eldest sons of Fëanor, in the wake of the fall of the High King, must have made a few people wonder, thought Findekáno. He must be cautious, he knew. He risked a sidelong glance at Maitimo, who was also scrutinising the crowd. Lalwendë caught his eye again, raising an eyebrow questioningly, and Findekáno belatedly realised that he should be speaking.

“Tomorrow at noon” he declared, “there shall be a general council of war, with regard to the current… situation. The sons of Fëanor shall of course be in attendance, as our allies and dear friends.” He paused for a moment, deliberating. Suddenly Lalwendë’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“But now” she announced. “The King and I shall dine with our guests” - she smiled warmly at Maitimo and Macalaurë - “who have certainly had a long and tiring journey.”

Maitimo inclined his head politely. “We should be delighted to accept your hospitality, Lady Lalwen.” Then he turned back to the crowd, but not before he had glanced at Findekáno, who thought he saw a momentary hint of an encouraging smile.

 ———

“Thank you, Lalwendë” said Macalaurë sincerely, accepting the proffered hot cup of sweet, spiced wine with gratitude. Lalwendë poured herself a cup, and replaced the jug atop a small burner by the hearth. Servants had cleared away what was left of their meal, and now at last the four of them sat in the royal solar (Findekáno could not quite yet bring himself to think of it as  _his_ ) on low couches grouped around the fireplace, where a small but cheerful fire burned. Macalaurë flexed his fingers. “I feel almost  _warm_ , for the first time in longer than I care to consider.”

“This winter has been a cruel one at Himring” explained Maitimo. His hand lay on the seat beside him, and now that they were no longer on public view, Findekáno rested his own gently over it, just enough so that their fingertips overlapped. He found himself drawing strength from the touch.

“They are saying it will be a year without a summer” commented Lalwendë, taking a sip of wine, her face tense.

Macalaurë grimaced. “Indeed, it has been so cold that I almost could not feel the pain in my hands, as the burns were healing.” He flexed his fingers again, laconically. “Almost.”

Maitimo must have seen the question in Findekáno’s eyes before he could ask it.

“The Gap was lost, as you know” he said, his brows furrowing in pain, his eyes far away. “Macalaurë only… we only just made it out alive.”

“Maitimo saved me” said Macalaurë simply. He was suddenly serious, his long, pale fingers curling tightly around the stoneware cup. “He saved my life. I – I could have died. I almost did.”

“The dragon” said Maitimo, gesturing at Macalaurë’s burns, his face still twisted with pain. “We could do nothing to hold him off.”

“ _Glaurung?_ ” exclaimed Findekáno, rage suddenly burning inside him as he envisioned Maitimo and Macalaurë alone on the plains, fighting his old enemy. His hand instinctively tightened over Maitimo’s, protectively.

“Yes” sighed Macalaurë. “My host was surrounded. The lands were burned. My people fled for Himring, but very few made it out alive. There were orcs, but…” he shook his head. “The last I remember is Maitimo pulling me onto his horse, half dead from smoke inhalation. The next thing I knew, I was waking up at Himring, and a long, interminable winter of waiting, while my skin and broken bones healed and my voice returned.” He scowled. “Like a damned, useless coward. While Maitimo was out fighting for - ”

“Stop it, Macalaurë” growled Maitimo, his face stormy. “I am alive, you are alive. Stop it.” He turned back to Findekáno. “My men and I retook the pass of Aglon, and it should hold now, even if it were to be attacked. It was not an easy task - ”

“Oh come on, Maitimo” Macalaurë was grinning now. “The orcs practically flee before your very face. If I saw you coming at me with a sword in your hand, or even just that  _look_  you get when you’re angry, I know I would be tempted to do exactly the same.”

“I am glad to see your sense of humour is undamaged, Kanafinwë” interjected Lalwendë, somewhat sternly.

“Forgive him, Lalwendë” said Maitimo. “He just… we too have suffered terrible losses. No messages have got through, even now, from the South. Our brothers… of Carnistir and Ambarussa there are some tidings, but we do not know yet whether Tyelkormo and Curufinwë are alive.”

“You have not heard?” said Findekáno quickly. “They reached safety in Nargothrond. Findárato sent messages, but I suppose if they were not getting through…”

But Maitimo was exchanging looks with Macalaurë, their faces breaking out in broad smiles, their relief transparent. Macalaurë laughed tentatively. Maitimo looked thoughtful, but he could not conceal his joy. It was as if a shade had passed from over the sun, and Findekáno could not help but smile with them.

“You’re sure, Fin?” Maitimo asked, placing his hand on Findekáno’s shoulder and searching his face.

“As sure as I can be of anything in these times. Findaráto sent a letter. Tyelkormo, Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar made it there with some of their people. They are quite safe for the moment, as long as they don’t try to go anywhere soon.”

“They must  _loath_  that” put in Macalaurë. He snorted. “Just imagine Tyelko and Curvo shut in a confined space with  _Findaráto!_ I pity everyone concerned. Especially Tyelpë.”

When their quiet laughter had subsided, an uncomfortable silence fell, as the reality of the situation came back to them. Findekáno took another mouthful of his wine, but the taste seemed almost too strong now, the sweetness cloying. He thought he felt Maitimo’s hand tighten on his a fraction. It was Lalwendë who finally spoke.

“And what of Himring? What if it should be attacked while its Lords are absent?”

Maitimo’s face clouded again. “We have left it well guarded. We came as soon as we dared, after we began to receive messages again. After…” he looked at Findekáno, holding his gaze. “After we heard the…  _news._ ”

“I am so sorry, Findekáno. Lalwendë” added Macalaurë, suddenly serious again. “We did not expect… I mean… we waited for news by the day… Maitimo drove himself to distraction with worry. We thought…”

Findekáno frowned. “You thought it would be me, didn’t you?” Suddenly he felt his anger and grief boiling to the surface, destructive and poisonous and entirely misdirected. He glared at Maitimo, hating himself already for what he was about to say. “You thought only I would do such a thing, didn’t you? You never thought my father would - ”

“Fin…” Maitimo’s eyes were full of pain. “I know what this feels like. We didn’t only come here for some political performance you know, nor to plan the next… stage of the war. I wanted to see you, to help you through it. And you are King now. I know you must be - ”

“Do you? Do you  _know_?” He got to his feet. He felt reckless and almost drunk, although he had only sipped his wine, distracted. His hand tightened around the cup, setting it on the mantelpiece with a little more force than he intended. A hairline crack appeared in the base, thick, dark red wine seeping out and beginning to pool on the stone. But no one moved or spoke, their eyes following Findekáno. “As a matter of fact I did intend to go after him” – Maitimo opened his mouth to speak, but Findekáno silenced him with a glance – “ but Lalwendë stopped me.” He sighed. “I do not know what he wanted from me. It’s not as if he left  _instruction_ , only the crown and the war and…” he tried to draw a steadying breath “…and all I wanted, the only thing I could think, was that I should have been out there beside him.” He sighed, glancing at the floor. “It’s awful. I feel I’ve done nothing but fail him, so far.”

“Nonsense” said Macalaurë, impatiently. “You’re still alive. Hithlum still stands. You have certainly not done nothing, Findekáno.”

“And what do you know about it?” snapped Findekáno.

“What do I know about it? I was a King, once.” replied Macalaurë quietly, staring into his cup. “Our situations are not… entirely dissimilar.”

“ _How dare you compare -_  ”

“Findekáno.” Maitimo had taken hold of his sleeve as he made to move towards Macalaurë, holding him back. “Stop. And Macalaurë… Don’t. Not now.”

Findekáno pulled his hand away from Maitimo, his face burning. Suddenly the room felt hot and close, and he longed to be outside, running, the cold wind stinging his face. Maybe the wine had been stronger than he had thought, for the world seemed to spin a little, tilting gently at the edges. As if in a dream, he made for the door, silently stepping outside into the darkened hallway.

“Findekáno!” He could hear Lalwendë’s muffled call from within the room, but he ignored it, walking aimlessly down the stone corridor, his heels ringing on the flagstones. It was cooler out here, and the pale, bluish light of the lampstones seemed strange and alien after the warm glow of the fire. He paused, leaning backwards against the wall. The royal apartments were deserted apart from the four of them, and it was late enough that the silence pressed against his ears, heavy and uncomfortable. He slid down the wall, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes. He sat down on the floor in the corridor with his head bowed and his knees drawn up to his chin like a small child, listening to his own heartbeat.

He did not look up, even as he heard the door open. A narrow slice of orange firelight momentarily fell across the floor before he heard it quietly close again, and then there were footsteps on the stones, approaching him.

“Maitimo” he said, without looking up. “I’m sorry.”

Maitimo did not answer, but sat down silently beside Findekáno, letting his long legs stretch out across the corridor. Tentatively, he placed an arm around Findekáno’s shoulders. When Findekáno did not react, he sighed. He reached out and placed his hand under Findekáno’s chin, lifting his face so that their eyes were level. Findekáno met his eye, somewhat ashamed, as he saw the worry on Maitimo’s face.

“I’m just…” he did not quite know what to say. “I never knew what he  _wanted_ , Maitimo. My father. Was he proud of me? I don’t know. I didn’t know what he wanted me to do, and now it’s too late, and…”

“Hush, Fin” whispered Maitimo, wrapping both his arms around Findekáno, who let himself lean his head against Maitimo’s neck, burying his face in the familiar smell of his cousin’s hair. “I know. I know.”

They sat for a while in silence. Maitimo was quite content, Findekáno realised, to let words wait until he felt ready, and for that he was grateful. Finally Findekáno spoke. “Thorondor carried his body away from there. Did you know that?”

Maitimo stared at him. “No. No, I didn’t know that.”

Findekáno immediately felt guilty. “No way you could have known, really” he muttered. “And do you know where he brought my father’s body?” Findekáno let out a bitter, hollow laugh that was almost a cough. “To  _Turukáno_.”

Maitimo raised an eyebrow. “Then… you know where his hidden city is? You’ve spoken with him?”

“That’s just it. I  _don’t_  know. Turukáno is my  _heir_  now, the next in line for the throne, and I still have no idea where he has been all this time. The entire situation is completely ridiculous.”

Maitimo sighed. “He cannot simply ignore your existence forever. You are his King now, as well as his brother. He would have to answer, if you made contact with him.”

Findekáno snorted. “I think you underestimate my brother’s ability to avoid doing his duty, in the most self-righteous way possible. He wasn’t even at my coronation.”

Maitimo looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Neither was I. I am sorry, Fin.”

Findekáno smiled affectionately, putting his arm around Maitimo’s shoulders. “The roads from Himring were still dangerous at the time. I would rather have you safe, trust me. Besides, it was a sparse affair, a necessary formality really. There was little in the way of celebration, and the atmosphere was one of fear of impending doom. You did not miss much.”

Maitimo looked at him thoughtfully. “You will be a good King.”

“How do you know?”

“I  _know_ , Findekáno.”

“No you don’t. You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

Maitimo chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Well… I tried.”

Findekáno shifted so that they were facing each other, lifting Maitimo’s hand in his, looking the faded scars across the knuckles. There were more of them, he noticed, than when he had last looked, recently-healed abrasions and scratches. He kissed the knuckles, pressing Maitimo’s fingers urgently to his lips. Maitimo smiled sadly. The pale lamplight drew all the colour from his face and hair, making him appear silver-bright in the gathering darkness, and almost more sharply beautiful than Findekáno remembered. He stared at him for a moment, drinking in the sight, letting the familiar lines of his cousin’s beloved face calm his nerves. Then Maitimo was leaning forward to kiss him softly, almost tentatively, his long, pale eyelashes casting spidery shadows on his freckled cheeks as his eyes flickered shut. Findekáno’s own eyes closed as the kiss deepened. All the grief and pain of the last few months seemed to draw back a little, and there was, for a moment, nothing in the world save the two of them, and the contact between their skin and their lips and tongues. Even the cold stone of the floor seemed to vanish from Findekáno’s conciousness. Then Maitimo drew back, and Findekáno remembered that they were sitting absurdly in a corridor, their legs twisted awkwardly between them, the fingers of Maitimo’s hand twined with those of both of Findekáno’s. He realised, almost with some surprise, that his heart was racing, and there were tears on his face, although of sadness or joy he could not say. Probably both, he thought.

“I’ve missed you, Maitimo” he said, and then smiled at the obviousness of his statement. Maitimo smiled, and stood.

“Come on” he said, offering Findekáno his hand to pull him up after. “Look at us, sitting here in the middle of the hallway. If the people could see their High King…”

“Ah, but no one shall see me like this” put in Findekáno. “No one but you.”

“Glad to hear it” said Maitimo. He glanced back at the room they had left, where Lalwendë and Macalaurë still remained. Findekáno could hear their muffled voices, although he could not make out the words. Maitimo was looking somewhat amused. “May I be so bold as to suggest to my King that politics can be put off until the morning…?”

Findekáno grinned, placing the briefest of light, teasing kisses where Maitimo’s jawbone met his ear. “A fine idea, I feel.”

———

Findekáno could not say for certain what had woken him. He lay on his back staring up at the ceiling, caught in the shimmering haze between sleep and full wakefulness as he listened to Maitimo’s even breathing beside him. They lay with their legs entwined, and their hair, copper and black, mingling on the pillows in the half-light. It was close to morning, Findekáno judged. The day of the council. His face broke into a small, involuntary smile as he thought back on the evening and night before.

After a while, Maitimo shifted in his sleep, and rolled over, muttering something indistinct about trade routes. Findekáno turned to look at him, propping himself on one elbow. His eyes flickered under their lids, the ghost of a frown creasing his brow, twisted somewhat by the long silver scar that stretched across his right eyebrow and over the bridge of his nose. His hand lay on his chest, while his handless right arm was flung out above his head, tangling in his tousled mass of copper hair. A single lock of hair lay across his face, lightly lifted by his breath. As Findekáno watched, Maitimo shook his head slightly in his sleep, as if trying to shake it from his face. Gently, carefully, Findekáno reached out to sweep the strands of hair aside.

Maitimo’s eyes immediately sprang open, his head jerking upwards in the disorientation of sudden wakefulness. For a moment a flicker of panic crossed his face, but then he relaxed when he saw Findekáno.

“Fin?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong.”

Maitimo raised a sceptical eyebrow. “You are not usually one to lie awake at night.”

“These are not usual times.”

“True.”

Maitimo said nothing more, but waited for Findekáno to continue. Finally he spoke, slowly at first. “I had to send a letter to Findaráto. Informing him of… of Aikanáro and Angaráto’s deaths. And after my father…” He paused. “Is this what it will be like from now on? I just keep wondering, who will be next? Will it be me? Will it be  _you_?”

Maitimo’s face was serious. “If anyone else is to die, I doubt very much it will be you. It may well be me.” He hesitated. “I think you ought to be prepared for that possibility, Findekáno.”

Findekáno opened his mouth to reply, but Maitimo spoke first. “Macalaurë still thinks that it would take more than an orc arrow to kill me. He still thinks, perhaps without even questioning it, that Himring is safe. And he has good reason to, after what happened to him. But it’s not true.”  
“You shouldn’t doubt yourself” said Findekáno uncomfortably, his voice brittle.

“I do not” answered Maitimo. “But I could easily be wrong. Fatally wrong, even. And with the Oath…” his face contorted with pain. “Anyway. I owe you better than to keep that from you.”

Neither of them spoke for a while. Findekáno shifted closer to Maitimo, wrapping his arms around his shoulders protectively, feeling the slight ridges of the scars on his back and shoulders. Findekáno knew the precise curve of every single one, engraved into his memory as surely as onto his lover’s skin.

“I feel guilty” he said at last. “A King should not send the most precious thing he has out to the front lines of a kingdom at war. Things have changed now, since you chose to live out there on your frozen outpost. Things are different.”

“Not everything has changed. Being watchful, protecting my brothers’ lands and yours from the east, keeps me sane. And you’re hardly  _sending_  me anywhere.”

“I know” sighed Findekáno.

“Although, I would suggest at least making it seem like you are before the council tomorrow. Well, today, now.”

“You are right. If people assume that you have too much influence here, it would do neither of us a bit of good.” He considered for a moment. “Come to think of it, perhaps we ought to have been more discrete, back when I was only the heir to the throne. A curse on political significance, and everything that comes with it.”

Maitimo kissed his cheekbone, near the corner of his eye. “Don’t be too quick with curses, Fin. They can be troublesome.”

Findekáno leaned sideways and kissed Maitimo, a lingering, brushing kiss across his slightly parted lips. When he broke away, his face was sorrowful again.

“There was something… something my father said to me, before he...”

Maitimo frowned, sweeping aside the fall of Findekáno’s hair over his face. “What did he say?”

“He spoke to me, before he…  _left_. He gave me his crown, and he called himself the King of the lost… and that means that I am too, now. It bothered me. Are we truly lost, Maitimo?”

Maitimo appeared to consider this for a moment. “I do not know.” He sighed. “As becomes more apparent by the day, I do not have all the answers. But I would not say that I feel lost, myself. No.”

“Nor will you be” said Findekáno fiercely. “Not if I have anything to do with it. I would fight the most terrible creatures the enemy cares to throw at me, if only it would keep you safe.”

“I certainly hope it does not come to that” said Maitimo, grimacing at the thought. “But I know, Fin. I know.”


End file.
